My hand on yours
Is not so awkward as I'd thought,
My thoughts not so clumsy as my mouth,
Which tries to speak the truths
My mind forgot.
My mind's memories,
While vast, varied, and deep,
Are, as yet, unfinished,
Uncertain, unkempt, at times
Ingenious, yet incomplete.
And don't get me started on my feet
Which move hither and yon
Cross the north and east,
Never sleeping, never sleeping,
Looking for something to quest upon.
But my heart still pushes
Regular as ever--
Fiery, bloody, unconcernedly
Bound to what's good
In fine-- and harsher-- weather.
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